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User blog:MollyMae/Death and Taxes -- Hold the Taxes
I will never forget the first time I saw somebody die. It was solemn and humbling. It was quiet and painless. It was not peaceful. This story is not about that time. This story is about the time I almost saw someone die. Or maybe about the time I saw someone almost die. I'm not really sure which is closer to the truth. In the spring of 2005, I lived alone. That doesn't mean that I didn't share my quarters with anyone (I didn't share my quarters with anyone), only that a prominant part of me was dormant and what part of me was conscious didn't like people very much. I was alone while I lived. I was free and it was killing me--my only obligations were the ones that got me food. I wasn't destitute or begging in the streets. I was vagabond, wayfarer, highwayman. I had found work at a diner in Broken Bow, Oklahoma. I worked for a woman whose real name I can no longer recall or pronounce. She was Ukranian and a lot of folks called her Mama or Mary since she ran Mary's Diner. She was a stubborn woman, full of anger, a natural leader. She would ask clues from the crossword on Sunday after the paper came. Her thick accent and poor comprehension of English made it almost comical to see her doing the crossword. Almost comical. She hated the English language more than she hated her last two husbands, and I certainly wasn't going to let her know that I secretly laughed when she would ask for crossword clues. Unlike some folk, though, I learned not to mess with her when it came to language. One hot Sunday, just after noon, while most of the locals were still in church, I was sweeping the diner while Mama was doing the crossword. Sunday mornings were always lazy, building up to the busy afternoons. We had two customers at the time--John, a middleaged local who attended the diner every Sunday as if it were his church, and some kid just a few years older than I was. Both were drinking coffee. John had eggs and toast. "Four letter word for Stubborn Animal," Mary said, not looking up from her paper. "What kind of clue is that? Goat is stubborn animal. Bear is stubborn animal. How many animals have four letters are stubborn?" "Mule," I said, recalling an old John Prine song I used to listen to on the road. "What is more stubborn about mule?" I didn't know then (and I don't know now) what is more stubborn about mule. I liked to think that somewhere along the line, some farmer was having a bad day and his mule finally made him snap. I don't know, I've never been a good farmhand and I've never worked with mules. I do know what made Mary finally snap, though. "Mule is stubborn, like bear." I looked over my shoulder. It wasn't Mary who spoke. She was looking up, as well, over toward the kid. "You mock my speech," she said. She may not have been the most fluent in English, but she was clever and people-savvy. She beat him with the fluidity of a boxer. Jab, jab, jab hook. Thud. Spit. I didn't see it. I knew better than to be anywhere near the action. I was washing dishes in the kitchen. I never saw the kid again. I don't know if he didn't come around because of his thrashing and I never ran into him in town or if he never made it anywhere after that. I don't want to know. John left a five on the counter and was probably gone before the kid knew he was in trouble. When he came back the next Sunday, we didn't make eye contact. I poured his coffee and got his eggs and toast. We never talked about it. Category:Blog posts